


Shotlocks

by DragonThistle



Series: Keychains [2]
Category: Kingdom Hearts
Genre: Gen, Possible KH3 Spoilers, more tags to be added as i continue to write these, probably will be largely kh3 inspired
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-04
Updated: 2019-06-07
Packaged: 2019-11-09 10:05:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 9,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17999759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DragonThistle/pseuds/DragonThistle
Summary: "A person often meets his destiny on the road he took to avoid it." -Jean de La FontaineYears and worlds and battles have all passed under our feet since the Heartless first appeared on Destiny Island. The journey has been long. And for most of us, it has brought many changes.The second collection of Kingdom Hearts one shots, in no particular order and generally unconnected. Still contains copious amounts of found family, fluff, friendship, and angst.[updates when possible]





	1. Snapping Sounds

**Author's Note:**

> Guess who’s baaaccckkkk~
> 
> So! Kingdom Hearts 3 came out (finally) and I haven’t beaten it at the time of posting this first chapter so NO SPOILERS PLEASE. But man alive has it reminded me how much fun I had writing Destiny Shots. 
> 
> But I don’t want to open old wounds by posting in Destiny Shots. So welcome to Shotlocks, a collection of one shots all generally unconnected and probably a tad canon divergent. It’s not necessary to have read any of my Destiny Shots to read Keychains but it may help you to understand some of my headcanons and my writing style.
> 
> Anyway, thanks so much for letting me ramble here. I hope you enjoy!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One man’s trash is another man’s treasure.

Riku feels it when his Keyblade breaks.

He doesn’t quite comprehend it in the moment, thoroughly distracted by the overwhelming wave of darkness churning around him. He’s choking on it, can feel it pouring down his throat and swelling into his lungs. It seeps through his skin and infects him, freezing his insides and curdling his blood, cracking his bones with a freezing pressure.

The darkness swallows him whole.

It swallows him and he’s sinking, drowning, thrashing against the liquid darkness as it drags him down, down, down. He’s been lost in the darkness before but not like this, not in a pure, rolling wave of black that sticks like thick tar and coils around his neck with an almost conscious effort to choke the light out of him.

When he’s free of it—that haunting voice ringing tingling like stardust at the back of his heart—he takes in the damages.

Physically he’s fine but there’s a raw edge scraping against his heart and, oh. His Keyblade is broken. It’s not a clean break, jagged and splintered and cracked and Riku realizes that he’d _felt it_ when it happened.

The echoing _snap_ that had reverberated in his chest the moment the tide of Heartless had swallowed him; that had been his Keyblade.

It’s damaged beyond repair now, the top half missing entirely, and Riku almost feels sad about it. This had been Soul Eater, this had been proof of his journey to walk the path of twilight, that line between light and dark, a symbol of balance. Way to Dawn had been the restoration of himself, his second chance, his resolution. The shattering of it leaves a scar across his heart and the once proud bond he’d shared with the blade is now numb and growing steadily colder.

He tastes silver and cold nights on his tongue and his lips quirk in a smile.

Sand rolls, soft and cool, beneath his feet as he approaches the gentle waves on the shore. Plunging the broken Keyblade into the ground feels like a promise, almost. He can feel the ties of his heart tugging gently, searching, offering, consoling.

He can’t use this Keyblade anymore.

But maybe someone else can.


	2. Technique

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Be prepared for oncoming storms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not very fond of how this one turned out but the opening cutscene to Arendelle put the gun on the mantel and then _didn't do anything with it_ and it made me mad.
> 
> Also still haven't beaten the game yet. I'm getting all the Lucky Emblems.

Sora has experienced cold before.

The ends of the rainy seasons on the islands dropped their usual, sticky humidity and made temperatures fall just enough for the islanders to see their breath fog through the sheets of rain. Traverse Town always had the lingering chill of a summer night about it, nothing cold enough to drive you away but enough to keep you moving. The mountains in the Land of Dragons had been the coldest Sora had experienced until now. Snow—actual snow!—that crunched underfoot and his breath billowing like steam before him. But they hadn’t stayed in the mountains very long and it had been easy to shake off, what with a war keeping them on their toes.

Here, though, shin deep in frozen powder with icy winds biting at his exposed skin, Sora really understands what it means to feel cold.

His teeth chatter, his arms are wrapped around his chest, his fingers numb where they dig into his shirt sleeves. He’s shivering so hard he’s getting a headache, the bitter wind stinging his eyes and making them water, which only makes things worse as his tears freeze almost instantly. Each breath drags frosty nails through his lungs, makes his insides ache, and his spine twinges from being hunched against the cold. He ducks his head as another gust of wind kicks up a swirl of snow around them.

“Guys, w-w-wait up a sec,” His voice sounds weak and his words wobble past numb lips. Goofy and Donald, wading absently through the snow as if it isn’t below freezing temperatures, stop and turn to face him.

“Uh, Sora, you okay?” Goofy is genuinely concerned, trekking back through his own trench in the snow to frown at the teenager, “Yer uh, lookin’ kinda blue there, pal.”

“It’s t-t-t-too cold!” Sora gasps, instinctively shuffling a few steps closer to Goofy’s warmth, “I’m f-f-freezing! I neh-need something warmer t-t-to wear or I’ll d-d-die!”

“Aw phooey,” Donald waves his concerns away with a scowl, “Stop being so dramatic!”

“Donald, I really think we should listen to Sora,” Goofy’s all business and it actually makes Donald look up at him, “Didn’t you have some kinda spell or something that’s keepin’ us warm?”

“What!?” Sora squawks indignantly, rounding on Donald who looks a bit flustered.

“It’s not a spell! It’s—I thought you would figured it out on your own!” Donald shouts back, kicking up loose powder and sending it careening into the dark sky.

“That’s givin’ Sora too much credit, dontcha think?” Goofy chuckles.

“Hey! Who’s s-s-s-side are you on anyway!?” Sora pouts and then winces as another gust of wind finds every opening in his clothes and snaps savagely against his tender island skin.

Donald huffs and waddles his way over, “Come on, let’s get out of the wind.”

It takes a little bit of wandering but they eventually find a small crevice among the towering boulders that make up the mountainside. The wind whistles outside, making the snow dance with a hypnotizing beauty, and Sora shuffles dangerously close to the fire Donald has conjured to cast them some light and warmth.

“Magic takes Mana to cast,” The duck says and Sora nods in understanding, “And normally you let it out in one big burst for spells. But if you let out a little, you can warm yourself up.”

Sora’s brow furrows, “I d-don’t know if I can control it th-that well.” He’s still shivering.

Donald snorts and stomps his foot in the snow, “Think of it like a faucet. Instead of turning the water on full blast, you just let it out in a small stream. Picture it in your head, like I taught you before.”

Still looking a little skeptical, Sora closes his eyes and focuses on the training exercise. When Donald had first taught him magic—and it seems eons ago now—he’d somewhat impatiently coached Sora through the basic of using mana to cast spells. The faucet had been the best visual guide for Sora to learn with and now tapping into his mana is as easy as swinging his Keyblade. But Donald is right, he’s only ever used it in big bursts of power. Restraint has never been Sora’s strong suit.

He takes a deep, calming breath and imagines the sink. Mentally, he gently turns the handle, imaging a thin stream of water falling from the tap and into the basin. It’s gently and slow, but it’s still flowing. Then he reaches for the mana that curls in the fluttering lights of his heart and thinks of fire. Not destruction, not burning, not explosions as he usually would for his offensive spells. Instead he pictures warm hugs and fireside chats and the heat of the sun on the beach, all the comforting warmths of the worlds that give him a fuzzy feeling of happiness when he thinks of them.

He feels the magic trickle down his arms and over his fingers, coiling just under his skin and making his frozen digits prickle with the heat. It's like sliding on a warm coat, the bubbling warmth filling him up from the inside out. Steam rises from the snow that had gathered in little piles in the spikes of his hair and the errant flakes finding their way into the shelter of the crevice melt away the second they touch him.

“I did it!” He yelps, opening his eyes and staring at his own arms, as if expecting to see flames springing to life from his very flesh, “Cool! This is _so cool_! Why didn’t you teach me to do this earlier!?”

Donald grumbles under his breath and kicks some snow into the fire, making it hiss and spit, “Didn’t think you’d have enough control to do it…”

Sora throws a snowball at him and then goes shrieking out of the cover and into the winter winds when Donald starts screaming at him and firing Blizzard spells into the air.


	3. Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I climbed up a mountain and looked off the edge  
> At all of the lives that I never have led  
> There’s one where I stayed with you across the sea  
> I wonder, do you still think of me?” - The Ocean by The Bravery

While the sun is still high in the sky and Goofy and Donald are busy trying to pull coconuts from the palm trees in the dense jungle, Sora wanders down the beach until he can’t hear their voices anymore. But they’re within shouting distance if he needs them. Or if they need him.

The air is warm, the breeze rolling in off the ocean cooler and heavy with the scent of salt and fish. It’s familiar, in way, the crashing waves, the smell of the sea, the pale sands, the rustling palms. It strikes a chord in his heart, sentimental and nostalgic and longing. It reminds him of home.

Sora kicks off his shoes and shrugs off his several layers, piling them under a tree away from the reach of the tide. With a glance back at where he left Donald and Goofy, Sora wades into the water up to his shins. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, filling his lungs with the sea breeze, basking in the warmth of sun. He can almost feel the rays dancing over his skin, stirring his island blood with a familiarity he hasn’t felt in a long time.

If he lets his mind wander, he can almost pretend he’s back on Destiny Island.

He listens to

_the echoes of childish laughter, crack of wooden swords, splashes through the gently rolling waves_

the gull crying overhead and pictures the beach of their play island. The bright green of the trees, the citrus sweet smell of the paopu fruit, the creak of old timber. It’s home and it sings to him, calls him in the way he imagines the open sea calls to Jack Sparrow and his kin. Maybe that’s why he’s so thrilled by this world—it reminds him so much of his distant home, a place he hasn’t seen in what feels like years. He remembers

_“But how far could a raft take us?”_

hours spent sparing with Riku on the beach, kicking up sand beneath their feet, teasing and name calling until they were both spent and breathless with laughter. It seems so far away now, so long ago, a smear of happiness against the tide of darkness that has swept over their lives.

Sora opens his eyes, squinting against the sun, and sweeps his gaze over the endless horizon. It seems as though it’s impossible to tell where the sea ends and the sky begins. He turns in the surf, intends to go back up onto the beach, but he catches sight of a palm tree leaning out over a cliff edge, reaching towards the ocean with a desperate rustle of frilled leaves. Sora casts a glance back up the beach and then beelines for the cliff face. He splashes through the shallow water and takes a running leap, launching himself through the air and bounding up the rocks, trailing blue sparks from his heels. He swings around the trunk of a tree and flings himself forward to land with a skidding thud on the tree leaning out over the water. It stings the bare soles of his feet but he can ignore it for the view.

It’s cooler up here, the constant breeze dancing through his spikes and carrying the exotic smells of the ocean. He settles down into the crook of the bent tree trunk, legs swinging into open space, palms scrapping against the roughness of the tree. Once again, he’s struck by

_the memories of_

_watching sunsets from the edge of the islands, wondering about the future, the taste of coconut and_

**_sea salt ice cream and the sound of the tram, forgotten laughter, the warm summer air giving way to_ **

_night sky, stars stretching forever, a meteor shower, sparring in the grass_

how familiar this world feels to him. Familiar and different all at the same time. Of all the places he’s been to, of all the horizons he’s seen, of all the different atmospheres he has breathed, the Caribbean is most like his home.

He thinks he hears the whisper of his name on the wind.

Or maybe it’s the crash of the waves, calling for someone else who doesn’t have a voice to answer.

But when he shakes the daydream fog from his mind and looks back down the beach, he sees Goofy and Donald making footprints in the sand. They’re looking for him, shouting his name into the sea air. Sora smiles and launches himself off the tree, somersaulting a trail of blue sparks as he sails towards the ground. His friends hear his laughter and look up in time for him to crash into both of them, sending all three of them tumbling into the surf.

Sora’s laughing, getting soaked as Donald shoves him off and into the sand, trying to shout lectures at the young man over the crashing waves. But Goofy’s laughing too, sitting with the water up to his waist, and Donald gives up with a huff and a frown that’s clearly hiding a smile.

The Caribbean isn’t Destiny Island, it isn’t home. But it’s where his friends are. And, eventually, the ties of his heart will lead him back to familiar shores.


	4. My Compliments

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Cooking can cure almost anything.” - Michelle Dockery

Sora’s standing at the counter, absently staring at the ingredients spread in front of him as his mind wanders. He doesn’t notice the kitchen doors swing open or hear the scampering of little paws until Little Chef hops up on the counter and touches Sora’s hand.

“Oh! Little Chef! I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you come in. I was kind of spacing out, haha,” He lets the small rat scurry up his arm and leap onto his shoulder. When he feels tiny claws curl into his spikes, he starts moving, automatically reaching for the dry ingredients and mixing bowls,

“I was thinking about how before now I’ve never really cooked anything. I mean, I’ve made instant noodles and pre-made stuff before. But I’ve never made anything from scratch. It’s kind of nice, even if I’m not really the one doing it.”

He cracks an egg into the dry mixture without even looking, hands on autopilot as he stares into the middle distance. He only returns his gaze to what he’s doing when he has to find his spoon to begin stirring,

“And I know we’ve made this one a bunch of times already but I really want to try and get good at it, you know. Heh, guess I should pay attention to what I’m doing then,” Sora leans over the bowl, checking his progress, “I wanna get good at something that I can use after all this is done. I want to be able to make something for my friends. Oh, and my mom. I haven’t been home in…a long time.” He falters in his stirring, swallows, shakes it off, and goes back to work, “Anyway, yeah, I really like this recipe and I kinda wanna try and make it at home on Destiny Island. I don’t think anyone there has eaten anything like this before!”

Tiny paws pat his head and Sora lifts the dough out of the bowl, rolling it into a ball and then using the palm of his hand to mash it into a pastry board. At least he’s remembered to take his gloves off this time,

“I dunno if I ever mentioned it but I’m from a place called Destiny Island,” He tells Little Chef, smiling at the memories of his home, “It’s a buncha islands in the ocean; quiet and small and warm. Me and Kairi and Riku, we used to play on this one island just off the coast, it’s real tiny but we always hung out there. Sometimes we’d stay there all day!” The dough is smoothed out and rolled into a ball before it’s flattened. Sora carefully deposits it onto a tray and skips over to the fridge, letting it rest while he goes onto the next step,

“We used to shake the coconuts down from the trees and break ‘em open. And we’d catch fish from the ocean and find some mushrooms around the island and build a little fire and roast them over it. They weren’t very good but they tasted great when you were really hungry from running around all day.”

He’s smiling wistfully, fingers deft as he peels, cores, and cuts his way through the pile of apples. The knife flashing around his fingers, his gaze as sharp as its edge as he carefully steers it around its work. When he’d first begun this, he’d nicked his fingers all the time, even with Little Chef’s guidance. But Sora’s nothing if not a quick learner. And what are knife skills if not another combat technique, albeit one used against food rather than a Heartless.

“But traveling out here, with Donald and Goofy, we don’t really have a chance to stop and enjoy stuff for ourselves. Fate of the worlds and all that. Sometimes we can get our hands on some treats like ice cream or sweet breads and maybe candy once in a while. But home cooked meals? Nah! I can’t exactly picture Donald in an apron, can you?”

Sora belts out a hearty laugh, continuing in his work. Once in a while he hesitates as if trying to remember the next step or perhaps waiting for Little Chef’s cue. He carefully cooks the apples, idly chatting about whatever crosses his mind, often returning to the topic of his home. As he lets the apples cool and prepares the dough for the oven, he tells Little Chef about the meals he grew up on; the hundreds of excellent ways that fish was prepared, the many uses of the local root vegetables, and the clash of flavors imported from surrounding cities and towns. He talks almost longingly about tiny pies filled with pineapple and sweet nuts, the deliciously tender pork cooked in underground ovens so that it melts in your mouth with flavor, and the traditional dishes of fresh, raw seafoods marinated in different sauces, each more adventurous than the last. Sora clearly doesn’t know a lot about flavors or what went into the dishes but it’s clear he loves them and just the thought of them makes his heart sparkle with the warmth of home.

“I’m gonna eat so much island food when I get home!” He gushes, tipping the still hot skillet over so that the plate he’d pressed to the top is now on the bottom, “I’ll eat so much shaved ice and _poke_ that I burst! I can’t wait for some of that fresh pineapple sauce!” Sora carefully lifts the skillet off the plate and frowns when he finds a handful of the apple slices are still clinging with stubborn caramel stickiness to the bottom of the pan. He carefully pries them off with a utensil, laying them on the cooked dough with careful fingers before stepping back, putting his hands on his hips and beaming.

The tarte tatin is a little singed and the apples might have been left to cool a little too long and there are chunks of caramel stuck to some of them. But all in all it still presents for a tasty looking dessert,

“There! All done! Nice job Little Chef!”

Sora reaches up to pat the rat in congratulations only to find empty air on top of his head. Blinking in surprise, his gaze darts around until he finds the small cook inspecting the dessert from the countertop. Sora hadn’t even felt him climb down.

“Hey, when did you…” Little Chef looks at him and smiles, curling his paws in a quick gesture that Sora has seen enough times to understand.

7 out of 10 stars. Still needs some work but shows great promise. Keep going!

“Wait, did you even make this one?” Sora crouches down, brow furrowing slightly. Little Chef shakes his head, beaming proudly at the teenager. Sora’s eyes widen, “You…you mean I cooked this one all by myself!?” A nod from the chef, “No way!” Sora whoops, pumping a fist in the air, and then offers his hand to the rat who leaps into his palm. The teenager brings Little Chef up to his face and rubs his cheek against his mentor’s fur, as close to a hug as he can get, and giggles when Little Chef pats his nose and cheek in return. Sora lowers him back to the countertop, grinning so wide he could put the morning sun to shame.

“Thank you so much,” He says and his voice definitely isn’t choked with emotions and no he does _not_ have tears in his eyes, “Really. Thank you. I can’t tell you how much it means to me.”

Little Chef shakes his head gently, the softest of smiles on his faces.

You’ve already told me.


	5. Peace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I want to line the pieces up. Yours...and mine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finally beat KH 3 and I only cried twice.

It’s quiet here.

Not the oppressive sort of silence that came from endless halls of white, the memories of which still slip and slide out of his fingers even as he grasps at them. It’s not the vast, warm silence that reminds him of his bedroom at night, the stained glass under his feet a nightlight against the dark, his heart singing beneath his light treading.

It’s just…quiet.

There is peace in a way Sora hasn’t experienced in…

Ever?

The thought slithers away and he lets it go.

The air is sweet and cool. Or is it warm? It’s hard to tell.

This is a place of serenity and calm, with no horizons or echos. It is a place of reflection.

Ripples roll smoothly out from under Sora’s feet as brushes his fingers through another fragment of himself. It tingles against him, light bursting apart under his touch, clinging like static cotton to whatever his form is made of now. Perhaps he is what his mother had always called a soul. Perhaps he is just a heart though he doesn’t think so. He suspects he is both somehow more and yet less than that. But thinking about it too hard confuses and distracts him and he’d rather focus on the task at hand.

Putting himself back together so he can help the others takes priority over everything else.

This Final World, this Ending, will not hold him back. No walls, no doors, no cages, no endless nothing will keep him from his friends. From his family.

When he stands upon the pillar of shimmering, pearlescent white-silver and looks at the scattered remains of his self, though, he feels, for a second, despair. He holds it for a moment, letting its barbs prick and sting in the palms of his heart, biting his lip because it hurts, this hopelessness, it aches like nothing he’s felt before. But he lets it go again soon enough, acknowledges the hurt and lets it go. He can think about it later, when this is all over. For now, he has a task to complete.

He expects the structure to be cool when he slides down it to capture more pieces, expects the chill of marble under his fingertips as he bushes by. But it isn’t cold. It’s not warm either, it simply is. Like the quiet around him, it simply exists.

Sora wonders if this place looks different to everyone else.

Is it always an endless sky for every person who crosses here? Or does it appear to be different things to different people? How many scattered souls are waiting here, flickering quietly in the silence? How many still have a voice?

He pauses on an outcrop, looks down (or is it up) at the crystal blue and fluffy white and considers, for a moment. He can feel the tugging at the edges of his self, the pluck of shattered pieces fluttering against his consciousness. They are stuck in loops of movement, like a reel of memories playing over and over and over again, repeating the definition of insanity endlessly upon itself. An ouroboros consuming its own tail.

Maybe that’s what the struggle between light and dark really is. Maybe it’s nothing but an endless loop of hurt and destruction folding in on itself. Maybe it is doomed to repeat no matter what they do.

Sora breathes out, lets his sigh carry the heavy thoughts away, and slips off the edge of the outcrop, tumbling through the air and scattering fragments of himself into lights. He feels them return to him, fill him up and make him whole again.

So maybe the wolds are doomed to be in constant struggle for all of eternity.

But, Sora thinks as he catches himself on a filament of silver light and swings himself onto another outcrop of shimmering pearl, it’s the trials we pass through that make us who we are. So even if we do have to keep fighting, we can only become stronger and closer together because of it.

Somewhere, in some place he can’t quite touch, his heart sings out into the vastness of the void.

And dozens of hearts sing back to him.


	6. Shocking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lightning never strikes the same place twice.

As they’re making their way the treacherous, rain slicked slopes of Mount Olympus, they are battling not just the Heartless that swarm them but also the elements. They have weathered storms before but never on the side of a mountain and never with such a deluge driving them back.

Rain makes the paths slippery and dangerous, a single misstep threatening to send them tumbling down the mountainside. It soaks their clothes and sends chills seeping into their bones, sapping their strength and making them shiver if they stand still too long. It blinds them, sheets of water pouring down on them and clinging to their eyelashes. The wind tears and pulls and tries to knock them down, billowing through crevices with otherworldly howls and icy claws. Thunder makes their bones shudder, cracking so loudly overhead that their ears ring and they stumble as it rattles their skulls.

The lightning is somehow the worst of it.

Blinding snaps of light that zig-zag across the sky, searing blue-white against their eyes and making them squint. Spots dance in their vision for mere seconds after the flash and then they are drenched once more in darkness. Shadows are thrown into sharp, leaping edges that make Sora flinch and stiffen, Keyblade clenched in his numb fingers, blinking back the dazzled splinters from his face before he settles again.

It’s a dangerous climb made all the more hazardous by the crawling waves of Heartless.

They’re terrifying in the storm. Twitching nightmare creatures barely visible in the dark, their eyes glowing poisonous yellow from the deep shadows. Their hard angles are thrown into sharp contrast in the brief flashes of lighting, the strobe effect making their jerky movements look like a bad horror film effect.

Sora isn’t afraid of the storm.

Maybe once, as a child, he’d feared them. But years growing beside the open ocean on little islands had outgrown that fear, overpowered it. He has a healthy respect for nature and its whims. But it’s not the storm he’s afraid of.

He’s afraid of losing. He’s afraid of failing. He’s afraid of letting down the people who are counting on him. His first steps in this journey already feel as if he’s attempting to leap chasms and it makes his stomach drop to his feet. Because what lies ahead will surely be more dangerous and more hazardous than this.

It began with a storm.

But it will not end with one.

The determination warms his heart, makes it beat furiously in his chest, the thrill of the fight sending adrenaline souring through his blood. His Keyblade flashes in the rain, steel and uncontainable power, cleaving through the shadows that leap at them through the storm.

Thunder crashes in his ears and Sora barely makes the landing as he comes out of a spinning sweep, his ankle twisting as he hits the ground. He rolls with the impact, absorbing the rest of the blow that would have come from the hard rock, and is back on his feet in a flash. He’s favoring his right leg, though, and there’s still quite a few Heartless left. They can smell his weakness, sense the prickling of doubt against his heart, and they turn their cold yellow eyes on him hungrily. Sora counts them in the blink of lightning that follows. One, two, three over the, two lurking around the bolder, and one at his left flank. Eight in total. An easy amount to deal with but one made more treacherous by his throbbing ankle and slick footing.

(A part of him dwells furiously on the fact that he’s so weakened from the Mark of Mastery that his Cure spells can’t even heal a paper cut.)

The thunder booms again, loud and demanding, the angry roar of nature. Sora grins.

He swings his Keyblade into the air, a wide arc that scatters the sheets of rain around him, and he pulls on the core of his magic. It flares in his heart, tumbling and boiling down his arm to focus into his Keyblade. It sings to the wild nature outside, thrumming with an indescribable power, alive and a thing all on its own. Tendrils of questing power weave invisible trails into the sky and latch onto light and heat and speed and yank it down at Sora’s command. All of this happens in less than a second.

“THUNDER!”

Bolts of untamed electricity slam into the ground, sending shocks across the wet stone and burning away the darkness in a blaze of light. The lightning is brief and bright and dazzling, leaving streaking afterimages that Sora has to blink away, sparks fizzling into the cold air, smoke hissing from the instantly evaporated rain. Flecks of darkness peel away into nothing as crystal hearts vanish into the sky, freed from the black prisons of emptiness.

Sora beams at Donald through the rain and then twirls away to smash his Keyblade into a Heartless that managed to escape his attack. His ankle hurts something fierce but they’ve got the supplies to take care of physical pain. And besides, it will take much more than a twisted ankle or some silly old rainstorm to slow down a Keybearer on a mission.


	7. Legends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Got a whale of a tale to tell you lads  
> A whale of a tale or two  
> ‘Bout the flappin’ fish and the girls I’ve loved  
> On nights like this with the moon above  
> Whale of a tale and it’s all true  
> I swear by my tattoo” - Kirk Douglas

There is a legend in the Caribbean of a ship that is blessed by the sea herself. A chosen vessel that, like the Flying Dutchman, can appear and disappear with nary a ripple upon the waves. There are many an argument over whether this ship and her crew side with the pirates or not. Some say they witnessed her at the battle in Shipwreck Cove, fighting for the freedom of the seas. Others say she sided with the opposing forces what were destroyed by the Black Pearl and the Flying Dutchman.

Nay, you’re both wrong, says the third party, she and her crew fight for no one but the sea. Like the Dutchman, she is a vessel of the goddess, of Calypso, blessed and gifted and put upon the waters to right wrongs and defeat demons what that crawl from the bowels of hell itself. That ship is a guardian, a defender of the oceans, caring not for the laws of man nor nature. Some fear it, others worship it, and some believe it does not exist. And still no one is brave enough to speak its name over open waters for the sea is deep and its currents can carry many things across the world.

Leviathan.

“I’ve seen ‘er docked at Port Royal, I have,” A tradesman hisses to the gathered men around his table. They all have the stink of beer about them, huddling close against the smoky air of the tavern. Tortuga never settled and it never slept, even in the wee hours of the morning.

“You haven’t!” Scowls another man, “Why would a ship wot’s blessed by the sea need tah dock for?”

“It’s still a ship, ‘in it? Might needs to dock fer repairs!”

“Not iffin it’s a gift from the sea, you scumbucket!”

“She sails with the Black Pearl,” Says a haunted looking fellow, weathered by more than his years at sea. His fingers are curled tight around his tankard, his shoulders hunched against the ghosts of his past. The others fall silent to listen to him, “The ship what has canvas black as night, the dark ship wot’s never been sunk rides the waves aside the Leviathan.”

“You seen it, Geroff?” Whispers the tradesman.

“Aye,” Geroff murmurs into his beer, “I seen her. Saw the Pearl first, I did, and was givin’ her a wide berth as we didn’t want no trouble with Captain Jack. And then we sees her, crestin’ the waves like the beast she’s named for. Her sails are ruby red with the blood of her foes, her cannons winkin’ from the lower decks in the sun, an’ them ‘poons on her bow…” He shudders, pulling his drink closer to his chest, “Musta’ been as long as she was, crested in shiny metal and fit to rip yer hull open like a lace weave. The strangest thing, though, was that we could only make out one figure aboard that vessel.” For the first time since his story began, Geroff’s eyes wander up to take in the enraptured faces of the men around him,

“Short was the helmsman from what we could see. Barely stood or’ the wheel. But there were somethin’ about the way he moved. A sea dog in a youngin’s body. We hightailed it outta there faster than a sailor with shore leave, I tell ya’. Never seen nothin’ like it.”

“You thinkin’ the lad at the helm was the ship?” Asks another man, a flicker of disbelief in his voice, “You lot ‘iv gone round the bend, you ‘ave. Haunted ships and what not. Rubbish. The sea does things to yer head and iffin you’re all too punch drunkin’ tah see it—“

One of the burlier men socks the speaker in the face with a grunt and might have instigated a full on brawl had the tavern doors not swung open with a bang. Captain Jack Sparrow strides in as if he owned the place, as if summoned by the very stories they’d been telling. There’s a split second of silence before everyone turns back to what they were doing. Sure, they’d all like to take a piece out of Sparrow for one thing or another, but given recent events, they’re more than inclined to leave him to his own devices.

But no one misses the young man who skips in after the pirate captain.

He’s barely up to Jack’s shoulder but he’s dressed in pirate finery; his long coat cuffed in gray fur and his boots worn leather gone soft with use. A silver crown clings to his throat on a heavy chain, glittering as he moves, trailing alongside Sparrow as though they are equals with a grin that shows all his teeth. He looks too young to be carrying himself as he does, too young to be walking on par with a pirate captain like Jack Sparrow, too young to be more than a cabin boy at best.

But as he passes the table of gossipers they catch that familiar whiff of the salty ocean air and can see the hardness in his spine that speaks of too many battles. Geroff is right, they think, this is an ancient sea dog resting in the bones of a youngin’. This is a lad who’s seen too many battles and carried more than he should. His soul is an old one, they think, even if his heart is young.

As soon as the boy and the captain are well out of earshot, the table all leans in close, hissing at one another about what they’d just seen.

“See!” Geroff is huddled over his tankard with wide, wild eyes, “I told ya’, I did! That there boy ain’t no human boy! He’s a creature of Calypso and he rides the Leviathan!”

“Hell’s bells, I reckon he _is_ the Leviathan!” Says the tradesman, looking a little shaken that his companions story has come true right before his eyes, “It just takes the form of a boy and a boat and roams the waters to do her biddin’!”

“An’ Sparrow probably serves her with a blessin’ too,” Another man says and takes a deep gulp from his beer, “’S why folks been spottin’ the Pearl and the Leviathan runnin’ together.”

“Didja’ see his eyes, lads?” Whispers one, starring unseeing into the dented and splintered tabletop, “Blimey but the boy’s eyes…the bluest blue I’ve ever damn seen. Tweren’t natural.”

“Might play caution ‘round those ones,” Murmurs another. He’s turning his nearly empty tankard around and around in his hands nervously, “Either stay outta their way or pay them their proper respects, I’d wager. The boy don’t seem the type to hold a grudge but…”

“You can never tell with these immortal folks,” The tradesman says and everyone mumbles in agreement.

Down on the rowdy shorefront of Tortuga, usually so packed with bodies it is impossible to see where you put your feet, there is an oddly clear space around a certain section of the docks. Even the most drunken and debauched citizens of the tainted isle know to keep a wide berth from the vessels resting there. Though some still stand in awe of the dark wood vessel with its midnight sails, they are quick to scurry away when their gaze falls upon the ship anchored beside the legendary, unsinkable Pearl.

A ship with ruby red sails and a beast of legend cresting from its bowsprit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my favorite Shotlock so far.
> 
> For the record, "Save Us" is probably my favorite Destiny Shot. But "Spite" and "War" are close seconds.


	8. Whole

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "What I am is darkness."

A hand snatches around his wrist, yanks him forward, makes him stumble on his weakened legs. More glass flutters to the ground, tinkling merrily despite the circumstances. A golden eye glances up to meet the brightest blue, confusion smeared over with frustration and maybe a little anger.

“No!” Sora, determined and covered in scrapes and swelling bruises, clutching at Vanitas’ arm even as shreds of darkness flicker out between his fingers, “You’re more than that! Everyone is!”

“Sora, let him go,” Ventus says in a low voice and Vanitas would send him a glare if Sora wasn’t filling his vision, inserting himself into Vanitas’ world like he has with everyone he’s met, “If this is what he wants then—“

“No!” Sora shouts again, tightens his grip on Vanitas as if he can prevent the inevitable, “That’s not fair! Roxas and Xion—they all got to come back! So why not you? Don’t you want to exist?”

Vanitas’ jaw clenches and he wants to pull himself away from this brilliant, stupid brat. But he doesn’t have the strength to do it so he wheezes out a strangled laugh, “You’re an idiot. It doesn’t matter what I want, it’s _never_ mattered what I want. I’m just an empty creature, practically a Heartless. All I can do is _hurt_.”

“That’s not true! You said it yourself! You’re half of something, but you’re not empty!” Sora sounds like he’s pleading and Vanitas rolls his eyes with a tired sigh. More pieces of glass fall away, “You feel things! You get angry or scared! You matter just as much as Ventus does and you deserve just as much as he does! Vanitas, please, let me help you.”

Gold meets blue again, a sliver of molten distrust and old pain that never disappeared, “You don’t know what you’re offering. ‘Sides, it’s too late now…I’ll fade away, just like the rest of them.”

“I won’t let you.”

“Sora, that’s enough!” Aqua shouts but it’s Ventus who puts his hand on Sora’s shoulder and tries to pull him back. Vanitas watches with an impassive golden stare, disinterested in his own fate.

“You can’t save everyone,” Ventus says in a voice that sounds wise beyond his young appearance, “You can’t save the ones who don’t want to be saved.” His gaze flickers to Vanitas but finds none of the old malice or mockery there, just an empty and tired expression, hollowed out by things Ventus can never really understand.

“But—“ Sora looks at Vanitas, pleading, desperate, so full of hurt because he’s watched so many fall under his blade today and even though he knew what sacrifice this would take, it’s killing him to watch it happen. Once upon a time, Vanitas might have laughed.

“What’re you lookin’ at me like that for?” He breathes and it hurts to talk, hurts to resist his own destruction, “What’s that? Pity? Keep it. What I wanted doesn’t matter. Never has and never will. Take your light and shove it up your ass.” He pulls away from Sora’s slack fingers, stumbles backwards and almost falls, only manages to keep his feet out pure spite.

But it hurts. It aches and it screams inside the hollow cave he’s built himself, clawing to get out and, well, fuck it. He lets them go because it doesn’t matter anymore. There won’t be much of him left to spawn monsters soon anyway. A handful of Floods and a couple of Hareraisers tumble into existence and skitter away into the shadows, fleeing from the Keybearers and their weakened master. Sora watches them go and, fuck, but the pity in his eyes grows even more. Vanitas wants to hate him for that, wants so much to be angry, but he just can’t find it in him anymore. It takes too much energy to be angry. He closes his eyes and sighs, letting pieces of himself go, letting himself fade.

“Didn’t…you just want to exist?”

Gold flashes open, most of the glass is gone from his mask by now, strands of black hair tangling in the dark pieces of himself peeling away from his fading form. Those stupid blue eyes are staring at him, imploring and determined.

“So what if I did,” Vanitas hates how tired he sounds, how weak, how drained, “I told you already, what I wanted…doesn’t matter.”

“Vanitas…” For fuck’s sake, not goody-two shoes Ventus. The last person he wants sympathy from is the person who ruined everything for him.

“Fuck off,” Vanitas breathes, letting his eyes fall closed again, “Let me go. It’s the way it’s supposed to be anyway.”

“Maybe it’s not the way we want it to be!”

Damn it, Sora.

Vanitas feels a tug again, only this time it’s not something he can physically quantify. It’s like someone gently holding onto his heart like it was a fluttering bird, cupping their fingers around it and pulling it closer with hands warmed by the sun. He gasp, staggering, and goes down on one knee, looks up to see Sora still standing over him with a fierce concentration on his face. Darkness curls out from between the fist he has clenched to his chest.

“Sora, what are you doing!?” Aqua rushes forward but Ventus grabs her arm, holds her back because he knows. He knows what Sora is doing and Vanitas knows and it pisses him off.

“Jackass,” He murmurs as the darkness of Sora’s heart, the part that Vanitas had left behind when he’d woken from the sleep that had kept Ventus there, weaves into his collapsing frame, sustaining him. It’s like a breath of fresh air, patches of darkness filling in the holes in his heart, stitched there with flickers of light and a determined tenderness Vanitas might have made fun of once upon a time. Now he just closes his eyes and lets it happen.

This will leave Sora weakened and tired. He knows it. Sora knows. They all know it.

But Sora’s ever the martyr and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t give as much as he gets. More so, if he can get away with it.

Vanitas breathes, feels his strength returning, and slumps to the ground in defeat, his head droppingand his hands falling slack. His Keyblade is gone from his hands and the suit he’d worn since his creation suddenly feels less like a second skin and more like prison. He wants to tear it off and wretch at that life he’s lived but doesn’t have the energy nor the care to do so. Instead, he lets out a huff of breath that is almost a laugh and looks up at the Keybearers through thick strands of black hair and tired, golden eyes.

“You asshole Keybearers,” He murmurs as Sora stumbles back into Aqua’s arms, shaking his head with the sudden rush of exhaustion that makes his legs tremble, “Always thinking you know what’s best. Doing whatever you want because you can. Jerks, the lot of you. Why couldn’t you just…let me go…” His eyes are not hot and his voice is not shaking and he does not have a tight feeling clenched in his chest,

“Why doesn’t anyone ever listen to what I want…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen, I’m real salty about what happened with Vanitas in KH 3 and I will not shut up about it until my boy gets the character arc he deserves damn it.


	9. Homestead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Home” is any place that makes you forget the world is on fire, at least for a moment. -Rudy Francisco

The Gummi Ship is a small thing. The cockpit is barely big enough for the three travelers, the rest of the ship either taken up in storage or the inner workings that make the ship fly at all. But it’s a home away from home at this point, well lived in and well loved and patchworked with memories. People leave memories wherever they go and no place has more memories than a home.

The cleanest space is right up front by the controls, maybe a blanket thrown over the back of the pilot’s chair or a spare package of crisps waiting to be torn into. The two passenger seats have pillows and blankets on or around them, nests made of faded patterns and peeling fringes. Ribbons and scarves are bunched into the messes, a trail of fabrics leading to the door at the back of the cockpit where propped open chests bulge with clothes and knick-knacks.

But there are still stains from juice and foodstuffs on the armrests and control panels and crumbs wedged eternally in the seat creases. Fingerprints smudge the windows of the ship and sometimes there are crumpled sticky note reminders clinging stubbornly to the console.

Sometimes empty potion bottles are found under the control panels and stray synthesis ingredients will be crushed under elbows or bottoms. Loose papers float willy-nilly about the cockpit, some folded into paper airplanes or crumpled into discarded balls. A few have been tacked up along the back wall, scribbled with notes and to-do lists or keeping track of item counts. These lists share space with childish drawings of friends, lopsided stars and heroic figures with distorted limbs, and photographs of worlds where light glitters like diamonds off an ocean surface or neon glows with a steady warmth over a city street. There are tassels faded from a desert sun pinned beside the instructions for synthesizing an aegis chain, and a worn plastic Restoration Committee card taped next to a wrinkled entry ticket for some long past Coliseum games.

A chest at the rear of the cockpit is stuffed full of found objects that seemed important but have never been used; boxes bent out of shape from being squashed under forgotten books and handfuls of munny dropped in a careless hurry. Failed synthesis items crowd against discarded earrings and chunks of what might have once been a Struggle bat.

“It looks like a trashbin!” Donald spits one day as they attempt to declutter their ship. And Sora pouts and scowls and makes such a fuss about it that it’s left alone until the next cleaning day where they will get into the same inevitable circumstance.

Sora is notorious for leaving his clothes all over the Gummi Ship and it drives Donald absolutely up the wall. Goofy only chuckles and says that that’s just how teenagers are.

Beyond the door at the back of the cockpit is storage for food and items and gear and whatever else the trio picks up on their travels. There are stacks of haphazardly pieced together journals and pages that have no homes and are torn and fading at the edges. There is an alarming number of trophies spilling out of one of the largest chests and racks of dented and worn out staves and shields. It smells old in the back, like memories and times past, boxes full of old dreams and forgotten nightmares, all catalogued and sleeping. Keychains and charms and items that had once called upon friends from other worlds are tangled in an inescapable knot in a small box, a cracked and splintered wooden sword resting on the shelf beside it, and a scattered handful of seashells beside that.

It’s messy and chaotic and things are easily misplaced or dug up again, there are sometimes smears of half drunk elixirs spilled in haste on the floors and the singed smell of burnt and useless synthesis experiments. Socks and armor and accessories migrate across the floor until they form a pile against one wall and they stay there until Donald screams himself hoarse to clean the damn ship. One wall has a dent in it from Sora kicking it much too hard and there are scuff marks from all kinds of inappropriate adventures with weapons being used in enclosed spaces. There are dings and scrapes and papers and presents and bits and bobs all over the ship, tinging away in boxes and pilfered chests or rolling about underfoot, determined to be remembered.

The Gummi Ship is full of memories. It has been lived in and loved and the trail of stardust it leaves in its wake is a twinkle of nostalgia and a spark of inspiration. It is a small ship, all things considered, very small.

But it is home.


	10. Ashes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, life is too short, to suffer this much...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof, sorry I haven't updated in a while, I've been going through some rough patches. Creative block, being tremendously sick for a week, and all kinds of other nonsense. This one has been sitting around finished for a bit now but I was hesitant about posting it. But after rereading it, I think it's a good one so here it is.
> 
> I'll try to be more on top of updates but I haven't felt very inspired for KH lately. Maybe I just need to go replay the series from the beginning again, heh.

Lea wakes up from a nightmare of clawing hands and flames beyond his control and screams of people who should never, ever scream because he’s supposed to _be there for them_.

He wrenches from sleep, dragging a sharp breath against his racing heartbeat, and stares into his dark bedroom. The room feels as if it’s rocking and his fingers ache as they bite deep into his blankets. It takes seconds and an eternity for things to settle and for reality to drape itself over everything in familiarity and recognizable shapes. Wardrobe spilling half its contents on the floor in a waterfall of fabric, pile of paperbacks slowly being read through, messy desk and crooked chair never pushed in all the way, threshold of the closed bedroom door.

He stares at it for a while, the rectangle, the barrier. Then he rolls out of bed and picks a hoodie up off the floor.

There’s a bit of fumbling in the dark as he carefully reaches into a desk drawer and tugs out a small shape, pocketing it in his zip-up hoodie before he moves away. The door doesn’t creak as he opens it but he’s slow and quiet about it anyway. This house is small and Kairi sleeps in the room across the hall from him. No sense in waking the princess.

Lea picks his way down the hall and into the front room, shoving his feet into a pair of sneakers and shuffling out the front door with the same patient silence as before. The crisp, fresh night air is a relief after the stifling warmth of the house. As cozy as the place is, Lea has never been one for the domestic and rustic cabin living, surrounded by nature and rubbing elbows with your housemates every single day. Not that he hates living with Kairi and Merlin, it’s just that Lea is very much about personal space. He tends to burn anyone who gets to close to him.

_Keep playing with fire and you’ll get burned._

It’s dark in the shelter of the trees, branches dense and woven together this deep in the forest. Fireflies flicker in and out of sight and the night sounds hum like the world itself is breathing, a white noise so soft it becomes unnoticeable before it even registers. The stars and the half moon barely light the way but Lea’s walked this path enough times to know it without much hinderance. He sets off down the dirt pathway, taking deep breaths of the chilly air, enjoying the crunch of earth under his shoes and the faint rustle of leaves overhead. It’s a kind of a peace you don’t get around man made structures, he’s come to realize, a serenity of natural beauty that he’d never had the chance to experience nor appreciate before.

When this is over, he’s going to take so many fucking vacations.

The path winds through the woods until it spills out onto an overlook, a grassy cliff edge sat with mossy boulders and a view of the green valley below. Lea plops himself down onto a rock and pulls a battered little cardboard box out of his pocket, twitching it open with a gesture and tugging a pale stick from inside. He hesitates for along moment, just letting it hang from his lips, before he sighs and snaps his fingers, holding a tiny flame to the end until it catches and begins to burn. Then he sucks in a breath and lets it out again in a cloud of smoke, his eyes sliding closed as his heavy sigh chases the grey fog away.

He just sits there for a little while, picking out the stars with green eyes that are only half seeing what he’s looking at. His mind wanders as he drags on the cigarette, dancing on the fringes of his nightmare and plucking at the strings of hope in his heart. The hope shares the same notes as pain and regret and fear, though, the sour resonance making the sting of his addiction burn the back of his throat all the more.

He tries very hard not to think about it.

When the cigarette is done, he’s very careful to snub it out completely on the side of the boulder before wedging to the butt back into the box to dispose of later when no one will see. The pristine ends of the untouched cigarettes still waiting to be used stare back at him, pupil-less white eyes that are neither questioning nor damning. They simply watch.

Lea jerks another cigarette from the pack and lights it with another snap and a drag.

“Gross.” Says a voice and he lazily turns his head to look at Kairi. She’s wrapped in an oversized sweater with the hood pulled over her head. Like him, she’s donned untied sneakers but, unlike him, she’s had the common decency to wear a pair of pajama pants out; they’re burgundy in the dark, speckled with lighter spots in the shape of rocket ships.

“Not all of us wear pants to bed, princess.” Lea’s words spill out with a lungful of smoke and he smirks at her. His black boxers have tiny flames in sunglasses on them and he stretches languidly on the rock, making his hoodie ride up so she can see them grinning at her.

“You being pants-less is the least of my worries,” Kairi says and plants herself on the opposite boulder, pushing her hood back to spill messy red hair over her face. She flicks it back agitatedly, “I was talking about your smoking. It’s gross.”

“’S why I do it out here.”

“I didn’t even know you smoked.”

“Thought it fit my tragic character arc,” Lea says without missing a beat and takes another drag on his smoldering stick.

Kairi frowns, watches him breathe out poison like he doesn’t care. She twists her fingers together, “I heard you shout.”

Lea doesn’t remember shouting but it’s very likely that he may have when he’d woken up from his nightmare. He doesn’t want to admit it though so he says nothing and simply looks at her. Kairi holds his gaze steadily, determined and heartfelt and he kind of hates that someone has the gall to care about him so much. No one should care about _him_ that much.

“I don’t do it a lot,” He admits, completely ignoring the previous statement and all its implications, “Just…when things get their worst. Me and Isa used to share when we were—back in the day. Maybe one smoke every couple of months, just when things were too much and we needed an excuse to take a break.” He looks at the half finished cigarette, feels the burn of it in his lungs, bitter on his tongue and sore in his throat, and crushes it out against the rock almost spitefully,

“Always was a sucker for bad decisions.”

Kairi looks like she wants to say something. But in the end she thinks better of it and instead turns to look out over the dark valley under the blanket of pale stars. She looks tired in the dull light. Lea feels that exhaustion gnawing at his bone, his own heart tired of this fighting, of this tension, of this escalating war. Tired of the loss and uncertainty that drills nightmares into his sleep.

“Welp,” He stands up, dusts himself off and tugs his hoodie straight, “Come on, princess, let’s get back to bad. We’ve got a lot more training to do tomorrow and I don’t need to be falling asleep on my feet.”

He’s already ducking back into the woods when Kairi’s voice stops him,

“Hey Lea,” He looks over his shoulder, watches as she draws closer and curls her hand into his with a tentative gentleness. It’s warm and compassionate, just like the gentle smile she’s offering him, “Next time you have a nightmare, come talk to me, okay? It’s better than going off into the dark by yourself.”

_I’ll always be there to bring you back!_

Lea scoffs but it’s more like a weak laugh that’s soured by a broken heart and missing pieces, “Sure, whatever, some real quality time. Maybe we can paint our nails too.”

But he squeezes her hand before tugging himself free and setting off back towards the cabin.


End file.
